Missing You
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: Was there a difference between missing and lost? It was in part this quandary that had carried him to the dark corner of this tavern this evening. My contribution to the July/August Fête des Mousquetaires competition.


Missing You

He was a man of extremes. Or at least that was the way that fate played with him.

His childhood was extremely privileged but extremely isolated.

His love for his wife had been intense, otherworldly, all encompassing, and so had been his devastation at her betrayal.

His guilt was extreme, and the amounts of alcohol that he had consumed nightly to escape it had been as well, in an equal measure.

But what other choice did he have, other than the final extreme…the dishonourable extreme…the way to end it all.

But, no, he was not worthy of the sweet release that ending it all would give him. He deserved every ounce of pain and guilt and regret.

He **_should_** be haunted by her ghost: reminded constantly of what happens when you give yourself wholly to another, when you lower your walls, when you follow your heart.

He deserved to see his brother's face, to have his laughter startle him as he passed the common people of the marketplace. In those instances he was forced to stop and look wildly around for the bright eyes and wide smile he knew.

And he deserved the devastating loss that inevitably followed.

That face was gone, grey and cold now - the light extinguished, the smile stolen from the world. His brother was murdered and it was his doing.

He was responsible.

He may not have held the knife that severed the life from his body, but he may as well have. He was the means through which the evil was committed. He was as culpable as the knife blade. He brought her into their family.

He fell in love. He trusted her.

He would not hear his brother's accusations against her or the complaints of his staff or the rumours that arrived with her, trailing after her like the veil she had worn on their wedding day.

With the loss of those lives, he had lost his own.

He had been cast into a pit of darkness when his two sources of light had been extinguished simultaneously as her hands committed that grievous act. Her hands, his fault.

And then when he sentenced her to death, when he upheld the rule of law, as was his duty as the Comte, it was her neck, his fault.

He may not have plunged the knife or tightened the noose, but their precious lifeblood would forever coat his hands. He would never be clean of it.

It had been a while since he last had sunken into the quagmire of his guilt. Well, sunken this deeply anyway. It had been a while since he had felt the true weight of what he had lost: his wife, his brother, his heart, himself.

And he knew exactly what had caused these morbid, pain-filled thoughts to resurface and make another desperate grab for him - to take hold of him once again and pull him into their midnight depths.

Was there a difference between missing and lost? It was in part this quandary that had carried him to the dark corner of this tavern this evening.

Missing versus lost – it was that question and his fear, if he were truly honest with himself, that placed him with that bottle at that table.

Time and time again, Aramis had tried to convince him that he was not a lost cause, that hope was not lost. He and Porthos had "found" him, had saved him, and continued to do so night after night in those early days, as they accompanied him home each night once the darkness pulled at him, and they tended to him in his disgrace. And slowly, through them, Athos had begun to see the dappled light through the murky water. His nights grew less tortured, he was less desperate to drown his pain in the dregs of whatever piss-poor poison passed for wine in the less frequented taverns of Paris.

Little by little, he began to find himself again through Porthos and Aramis' optimism, assistance and damned perseverance.

The sun had finally set over the city. It had been hours now since he had entered the tavern, but as he sat alone in his dark corner he was startled to realize that his bottle was untouched. His brooding had run away with him as he thought about his morning and the two men who had essentially adopted him into the Musketeer regiment.

He was suddenly aware as to how much he relied now on Aramis' care for his injuries and for his counsel, as much as he relied on his talents with a pistol. He relied on him for his understanding, kind eye, and gentle touch. He relied on his humour and quick wit, which miraculously even pulled the occasional grin from Athos' lips.

He relied on Porthos for his certainty and his faith – a different faith than the one Aramis ascribed to so strongly. Porthos' faith was in people – was in him and Aramis. Porthos trusted Athos, and Athos had found himself coming to rely on the stalwart brawler for his sound and practical judgement and steady presence as much as his booming laughter. The joyful banter of Porthos and Aramis bolstered Athos as much as it bothered him at times and it was not long before he found himself ruefully participating in it.

It was in this company that Athos had begun to recover some of what had been missing from his life, and from his self. He had begun to crawl his way back to the man he once was – or perhaps an even better version of himself.

He was more patient, more understanding and he had begun to care for these men who had opened their own hearts and engulfed him in their brotherhood. He had begun to find what was missing.

It was not their commonalities that unified their trio. True, they were all loyal, brave, and honourable. Stubborn, reckless and sometimes even insubordinate with self-sacrificial tendencies, their Captain would add.

No, it was their differences that united them and suddenly found Athos once more in the company of brothers. Ones he would willingly die for, knowing that they would do the same, unasked.

And like that, the vision of Thomas's eyes flashed momentarily before him in the firelight of the room. Or were those the dark mischievous eyes of the marksman? Was that distant rumble one of thunder or the laughter of the brawler?

Perhaps they were not lost souls, Athos mused. Perhaps they had simply found in each other that which they thought was missing in themselves.

For Aramis it was restraint, for he gave too much of himself too often, his passionate heart open and vulnerable. For Porthos it was acceptance and value, having fought his entire life to be recognized as an equal. For Athos it was humanity, the tether of emotional bonds that he had been deprived of since birth from his disappointed and disinclined parents.

Damn them.

How could Aramis and Porthos leave him now – now that he had found what he had been missing since Thomas' death? Now that he had come to rely on, care for and even love them?

Hadn't he learned what happens when you allowed others to get close?

It was loss and pain. Eventually. Always.

This was why he currently found himself alone again in the dark corner of that tavern, a bottle and a glass as his companions, but for once the bottle was full and the glass was empty.

This new bout of guilt – this overwhelming wave of anxiety and perhaps fear, which were tugging him into those familiar dark depths – had not yet pushed him into the drunken stupor that had been his previous respite.

He wouldn't call it salvation. He couldn't.

He doubted that he could ever be saved, despite Aramis' protestations to the contrary.

But here he was, sitting in the tavern, stone-cold sober and miserable, reliving past ghosts, past loss and hoping beyond hope that he would not be adding another to their number.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and recalled the events of that morning that led him to his isolation.

It had all started as was expected. They had picked up the package from the Duke de Lyons without any problems. The start of their return journey was also uneventful.

They were little more than an hour outside of Paris when disaster inevitably struck.

Having emerged from the wooded road on their route to the city, they were suddenly set upon by bandits who had been preying on the merchants both coming to and going from the city.

Dangerously outmanned, he, Aramis and Porthos had fought ferociously, side by side.

Their battle skills would see them victorious, but their opponents' sheer number would see them tiring.

The enemy lay dead around him. He paused for a moment to draw breath and to gain awareness of his surroundings. At some point in the melee, a blow to the head from one of these villains had caused stars to spring to his eyes, but he had recovered quickly. A dull throb and a probable bruise would be the only lasting effects of the blow – its deliverer lay dead on the field.

The few who managed to escape the wrath of the musketeers took off, desperate to return to the safety of the woods.

Athos paused for only a moment.

"Athos!" came a cry and a pistol blast and he was thrown violently. He landed roughly. He pushed himself from the ground to witness Aramis rain his swift retribution down on the shooter.

And there he lay, face down amongst the dead.

"No," Athos breathed, "not again."

He had crawled on his hands and knees to the downed brawler and turned him onto his back. The man moaned in pain, but to Athos, in that moment, no sound had ever been as sweet.

Aramis had been summoned to Porthos' other side with the outburst and was urgently tapping his face.

"Porthos! I need to examine the wound," he said, the urgency in his voice obvious.

Athos said nothing. He simply held the man to him and continued to count his laboured breaths.

"Athos, find the holes," the medic muttered tersely, breaking Athos' concentration and count.

He nodded and pushed aside the man's doublet to reveal the red blossom ruining the shirt below.

"It's his shoulder," he managed to force out, aware of how dim-witted he sounded with the utterance.

Of all things, Porthos chuckled slightly, an action he probably regretted as it was interrupted by a hoarse and wheezing cough. "I coulda told ya as much," he said.

"Is the ball still in there?" Aramis asked, as he rifled through his medical kit. Carefully, Athos roved his hand to locate a blessed exit wound.

"No, there is an exit," he affirmed.

Aramis nodded in relief as Porthos let out another groan.

Athos looked into Porthos' eyes for a swift moment before refocusing on Aramis.

"This will need stitching," said Athos.

Aramis frowned. "Yes but not here," he said glancing at the woods the bandits had retreated to.

"Will he make it to the garrison?" he asked. Aramis hesitated.

"I'll make it," Porthos said but whether affirming this statement for himself or his brothers, who could say?

"Athos, you will need to restrain him while I clean the wounds – I don't expect that you'll stay conscious for long, mon ami, but try to stay with us until we can get you mounted again," he jested weakly.

Athos clamped his arms around Porthos as Aramis poured and scrubbed the alcohol in and around the wounds. The giant thrashed violently but did not lose consciousness. His breathing was haggard as they packed the injury.

They carefully got him mounted, Athos gripping him tightly from behind.

"Why?" Athos couldn't help but ask as the brawler tried to steady himself in his arms.

The man didn't answer, but the look that radiated out of his dark eyes spoke volumes and Athos felt his own gut tighten and his breath hitch in their exchange. He nodded, knowing his own eyes were reflecting the same sentiment.

He glanced quickly at Aramis as Porthos relaxed slightly, finally allowing his consciousness to leave him.

They would not lose him, Aramis and Athos vowed silently and they courted the wind as they raced towards the garrison.

When they had arrived, Porthos looked as though he were dead to the world. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath Athos' hands was the only thing that confirmed to Athos that he still had life.

Porthos was rushed to the infirmary, Aramis in the lead.

Athos remained mounted.

He could not bring himself to follow into that room.

Porthos' blood coated his hand, his weight lingering against his body. The man had taken a pistol's blast for him.

Was he to be responsible once again for the death of a loved one – first by a knife, then by a noose, now by pistol fire? And what of Aramis should Porthos' life leave him? How could the man ever forgive him for the death of his brother? If Porthos died through his reckless attempt to save Athos, how could he ever look at the swordsman and not see the death of the other?

Athos doubted that Aramis would out-survive Porthos by much. He would likely die of heartbreak. Athos wondered if he would be able to live either - to have come so far, to have found these brothers and then to lose them again after so much?

He couldn't take it. He couldn't be witness to it. Not again.

So he left the garrison and headed to the tavern to await the inevitable death knoll for himself that would echo that of another brother's.

It was too much, too soon.

After all that he had lost – after he had found what he had thought missing within the company of these musketeers – to have that too stripped from him in a flash of pistol smoke?

His mouth soured as he stared at the bottle and the glass before him. He wanted to retch.

He could not suffer through this again.

He would not.

He was helpless before.

He had not been there. Thomas had died alone, his green eyes staring blankly up at Athos from the floor where his blood had pooled around him.

He had not been present as that last breath escaped his lips. He had not been there to hold his hand or kiss him goodbye, and because of this, his guilt and regret would haunt him forever along with her face and his eyes.

"Not again," he swore and pushed back from the table.

This second chance at brotherhood had changed him. He would not abandon Porthos and Aramis, no matter what the ending might be.

He returned to the infirmary having left the bottle and some of his fear and guilt behind. He hesitated outside the infirmary door, but steeling himself to meet whatever might be awaiting him, he pushed the doors open.

It was night now and the room was silent as he entered.

Two sets of brown eyes looked up in greeting. Both sets were markedly relieved.

The marksman held a deck of cards. Porthos was leaning back against the wall, his shoulder heavily bandaged. His face was strained, masking his pain, but he grinned brightly when he saw Athos.

"I'm sorry," Athos muttered. "I just couldn't…I thought…I was afraid to lose you…" he stammered. His bright eyes looked beseechingly towards the two men across from him.

They had every right to turn him away and he couldn't blame them if they did.

It was easier to not care, it was less dangerous. But as Athos looked at the marksman and the brawler he pushed those thoughts aside.

He would risk everything for these men.

Their brotherhood would be worth the risk.

He would not let them down again, his eyes promised.

"You're here now," Aramis said, relieving Athos of his awkwardness. There was no judgement in the marksman's eyes – only strength and support.

"It's about time," said Porthos beaming. "Glad you found yer way here. We were missin' you."

Athos smiled softly as he took up his seat on Porthos' other side. He held both of their gazes for a moment. "And I was missing you," he said bashfully, before looking down as he took the cards from Aramis and began to deal them out.

oooooooooooooooooo


End file.
